Please Please Me
by Sara Dobie Bauer
Summary: John Watson is a medical student madly in lust with his genius, seventeen-year-old, virginal friend (and occasional cuddle buddy) Sherlock Holmes. Of course, John would never act on his urges … Would he?
1. Chapter 1

"John? John!"

He would have recognized that deep, toe-curling voice anywhere. "Sherlock? I'm in the medical stacks."

A pale, slim shadow rounded the corner of the university library, and there he was: the seventeen-year-old subject of all John's filthy fantasies—which he kept mostly in check, thanks. As a medical student, John Watson was much too old to take advantage of the famed underage phenom of campus.

Who just happened to be, on occasion, too bloody beautiful to look at.

"Don't you have class?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Boring. I need a book about spider venom."

John paused in putting away a podiatry text. "Why? Have you been bitten by a spider recently?"

"Don't be silly, John." Sherlock reached out one of his delicate hands and began plucking books from John's grip. One by one, he shoved them back on the shelf.

"Oy, I need to put them in their proper place." John worked at the library sometimes to help pay for school, which was how he'd met Sherlock the year before. Sherlock was only sixteen then and—embarrassingly—already capable of inspiring John's lust … and the lust of several other students, as John had observed, none of whom probably knew Sherlock's actual age.

See, John often justified his carnal interest in the younger, _younger_ man with the fact that Sherlock seemed older, what with all his advanced classes and encyclopedic mind. He dressed older, too. Not many teenagers wore expensive pressed button-downs and dress coats with those dark jeans that hugged his ass just—

Nope. John Watson kept himself mostly in check, thanks.

Because, no matter how he seemed, Sherlock wasn't older. He was seventeen, obvious in the way his sweet, angular face had no wrinkles. In the way John could so easily make him blush. In the way he sometimes smelled like the peppermint candies he stole from the corner shop if the owner wouldn't let him buy cigarettes.

"John, I need the book now," he whined, and a deep crinkle appeared across the bridge of his nose.

John chuckled. "God, you're a child."

"I am not." Sherlock pouted.

John laughed some more before shaking his head and reaching his hand up to the back of Sherlock's neck. Much stronger than Sherlock, he pulled the younger man down toward him and pressed their lips together—a quick kiss, then another—and smiled up at his friend who he would absolutely love to bugger and whose mouth always tasted sweet.

But nope.

From what John could tell, Sherlock was a virgin. A _seventeen-year-old_ virgin, compared to John's vastly experienced twenty-three years.

It would be ages possibly before John felt morally all right taking the virginity of the mad genius, but a kiss didn't hurt anyone—and John only kissed Sherlock when he was being especially adorable.

A rare sign of affection, Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John's and allowed himself to be guided to books about snake venom. As soon as he had one, he rushed away without a goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

John lived with three other guys in a small flat away from campus to save cash. Luckily, his room overlooked the fire escape. "Luckily" because if his bedroom had been on the other side of the house, Sherlock would have had to climb over John's roommates to get to him, and skulking about in the middle of the night was generally frowned upon.

He remembered the first time Sherlock climbed the fire escape and then into his bed …

It had been only a month after they'd met—a month after Sherlock had made a librarian cry and John had forcibly escorted him from the building. On the sidewalk outside, John had realized the identity of the six-foot-tall angry child with lush curls the color of a raven's wing and eyes so cold they could have frozen the sea.

Sherlock Holmes. Phenom. Genius. Prodigy. Sixteen bloody years old. And John had wanted to fuck him. Immediately. Against the wall outside the library. Anywhere. Didn't matter.

But John was responsible and controlled and he kept himself in check, didn't he?

They became friends instead of lovers, bonding over anatomy textbooks, chemistry, and Chinese takeaway back at John's—which was how Sherlock knew where he lived and how Sherlock knew which window to crawl into back then and so many nights since.

Like tonight, for instance.

John heard Sherlock's wingtips on the fire escape and, half asleep, he waited. About a minute later, the edge of his sheets lifted and Sherlock's body pressed against his.

John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him close. Despite his height, he felt very small in John's arms—possibly because he was so slender when silent. Sherlock's words made him seem much bigger.

"Mm, hello," John muttered.

"I missed the way you smell."

"And what do I smell like?"

Sherlock paused. "You." He rubbed his face against John's shirt. "You kissed me again today."

"I did." John's fingers played with Sherlock's gorgeous curls. He ran his lips across the younger man's forehead and breathed him in—coffee tonight and spice. John had missed his smell, too.

Sherlock picked at the buttons on John's nightshirt. "Why do you do that? Kiss me?"

"Usually to shut you up," he whispered.

"It's more than that."

"I always want to kiss you." He kissed Sherlock's forehead as example.

Sherlock didn't speak for a few moments, surely mulling over the validity of John's statement. Finally, he asked, "Why?"

"Because you're lovely."

He lifted his head. The quiet glow of streetlights outside made his sharp cheekbones stand out like cliffs. "I'm … what?"

John grinned up at him. "Sherlock, you hear everything. Don't even pretend you didn't hear what I just said."

"Obviously, John, I literally heard you. I merely require explanation."

"When you're thirty, you're going to be the most pretentious bastard in London, you know that?"

"Yes, and you'll be the only one who can stand me, but explain how I'm lovely."

John squeezed Sherlock tighter and smiled in the dark. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were fishing for compliments."

Sherlock rested his head heavily on John's broad chest. "Hardly."

Maybe it was the late hour or the fact that John had been fast asleep a few minutes ago, but he wasn't feeling particularly eloquent. "What do you mean, explain how you're lovely? You're lovely. Beautiful really."

"No one else at school seems to think so."

"Are you …" John lifted his head and looked down to find a sour expression on Sherlock's face. "You're serious? You really don't notice how everyone looks at you?"

"They look at me like I'm too young."

John moved to sit up, which forced Sherlock's head from his chest. They both remained side by side, however, resting on their elbows. "Sherlock. You are young, but that doesn't detract from your loveliness. If anything, it adds."

Sherlock traced circles on John's sheet. "You're insinuating that people at school find me attractive."

"Bloody well right. I suppose they aren't all falling at your feet because you're …"

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he looked up at John.

"You're intimidating, Sherlock."

"Hmm." He rested his head on John's pillow.

"You should … smile more." John's thumb touched Sherlock's lower lip. "You have a nice smile."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Can we sleep now, John?"

"Yeah." John lowered his upper body to the bed, and Sherlock immediately curled against him. John fell asleep to the sound of his breathing and the crush of a thin, warm body, fingers tangled in his shirt.


	3. Chapter 3

The following evening, John picked up a shift at one of the bars frequented by university students. Again, it all came back to paying off loans—although John didn't mind. The bar was a great place to pick up blokes, and John was a customer favorite.

Sherlock had been absent when John woke; he never stayed the night, and John hadn't seen the genius all that day. John wasn't worried. He didn't fearfully play back the things he'd said in the dark. He was always honest with Sherlock, and Sherlock seemed to appreciate it. Telling the young man he was beautiful was just another conversation amidst hundreds … or so John thought.

That was when he heard that familiar, deep, toe-curling voice— _in his bar_ , where Sherlock never went, partially because he was underage but also because he deemed the bar scene "dull." John stopped washing beer mugs and looked up to see Sherlock about ten feet away, leaned against a wall with a pint in-hand. He seemed very small and very shy surrounded by actual adults, his shoulders curved inward as he looked up from beneath his lashes.

A buff, blond college student about John's age stood in front of Sherlock with one hand on the wall near his head. The blond man wore a tight green rugby shirt, similar to something John would have worn in undergrad, and he smiled—because Sherlock was laughing, and oh, what a fucking beautiful thing, that laugh. Shared so rarely, John knew each one of Sherlock's joyful expressions and the way his bright eyes warmed during a fit of hysterics.

Damn it, that laugh was reserved for John—someday—as was every inch of that long body, draped all in black that night, except for the dark jeans that hugged his ass just … _perfectly._ The word was perfectly.

When Blondie actually reached out and touched the side of Sherlock's neck, John moved. He shoved past his coworker, earning himself a colorful cuss, and through the thin crowd until he stood right next to Sherlock and this older boy who needed to—

"Get your fucking hands off him," John growled.

Well. That hadn't been exactly John's intended dialogue but needs must.

"Excuse me, mate?"

"John?"

"Sherlock." John reached forward to grab his friend's arm, but the blond got in his way.

"We're a bit busy here."

"He's only seventeen," John said.

"And bloody gorgeous. Get lost."

John sniffed, which was apparently a recognizable warning sign, because Sherlock pushed gently at the rugby boy between them. "Would you give us a moment?"

Blondie winked. "Anything for you."

John grabbed Sherlock's thin wrist and pulled him back toward the bar. He felt Sherlock almost stumble over his own feet.

"John, what the hell has gotten into you?"

John poked him in the chest. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I should think that would be obvious."

"Enlighten me."

Sherlock glanced back at the bulky blond. "I'm trying to get laid."

John tugged his hands through his hair. "You are not losing your virginity to some meathead you just met in a bar."

"Vir—" Sherlock closed his mouth and stared at John. He tilted his head. "John. You don't honestly think I'm a virgin."

"Well, I …" John crossed his arms and suddenly felt very stupid. "Of course I thought that!"

"Why?"

"Because you haven't been with anyone since we met! I would have known!"

"Precisely, John. I haven't had sex since coming to university, which, believe me, has been frustrating at best. I didn't think older men found me attractive because no one has ever approached me but you. Then, last night, you told me I'm intimidating, so I came here tonight, I smiled, and your conclusions were valid if the man over there is any indication." He paused and sighed toward the floor. "I had hoped that perhaps you would show some sexual interest in me, but as over the course of our relationship, you've exhibited only innocent and somewhat platonic physical contact, I'll seek fulfillment elsewhere."

John ran his hands down his face to stifle a near hysterical laugh. "No. You won't."

Sherlock looked prepared to be offended. "Oh, don't kick me out due to some idiotic moral qualms."

"Moral …" He grabbed Sherlock by the lapel of his black jacket and tugged him down to John's level. " _Moral qualms?_ Sherlock Holmes, the only reason you weren't thoroughly buggered months ago is because I was under the mistaken impression that you were a virgin and that I was much too old to fuck some whimpering innocent against the library stacks."

And just like that, John's filthy fantasies were no longer in check, thank you very much, because he licked his lips and kept talking. Couldn't stop talking really.

He said, "I've pictured fucking you over desks, over every piece of furniture in my flat, in the shower, over the edge of the bar behind us right now. Oddly, in my head, we're never fucking in my bed—maybe because I don't want to do sweet things to you." John pulled him closer by his belt loops and whispered in his ear. "In my fantasies, I'm not giving you closemouthed kisses and holding you while you sleep. I'm fucking you hard until you beg and scream my name."

"Oh."

John pulled back. "Oh?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, took John's hand, and pressed it against the front of his jeans.

"Oh!" John ran his palm down Sherlock's erection.

The young genius nodded. "Now, please?"

"Dear God, yes."


	4. Chapter 4

As he had so many times before, John took Sherlock's hand and guided the young genius. John didn't even look back to smirk at the sad, lonely blond man behind them. Nope, he just dragged Sherlock past the bar and up the staircase marked "Employees Only."

Through a swinging door they went, and John hurried to lock it and turn on the yellow-gold overhead light.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the small, tiled room with a toilet, large sink, and mirror. "A bathroom, John? Really?"

"It's staff only. I keep it clean."

Sherlock's eyes went from John's face to his toes and back again. "Really don't care right now."

They met in the middle, and there was nothing virginal or closemouthed about that kiss. Sherlock tasted like beer and sweet mint, and his mouth felt hot enough to burn. Luckily, John's tongue wasn't scorched as he explored, but his ears might as well have been, what with the foreign groans exploding from Sherlock's throat.

John pulled back and leaned their foreheads together. "God, I could come just from listening to you."

"Please don't." Sherlock's hands clung to John's shoulders.

He spun them both around so Sherlock's back was against the wall and attacked his neck with wet, hungry kisses. Sherlock's litany of obscene, gorgeous noises washed over John until he thought his pants might go up in flames, especially when Sherlock shoved his nose against John's shoulder and held tight.

"You never did tell me what I smell like," John said.

"Tonight? Sweat and spice."

He ran his hands down Sherlock's torso. "And you like that?"

"Mm." He lifted his head. "And when you kiss my neck."

John leaned forward and sucked. "Like this?"

"You said … you would …" Sherlock panted toward the ceiling. "You said you'd fuck me. Please, John."

John untucked Sherlock's shirt. "Oh, I'm going to. Then, I'm going to have to kill every man who touched you before me."

Sherlock snorted. "Not until I see how good _you_ are."

John pulled back, mouth in a disbelieving smirk. "Listen to you. Egging me on. I'll say it again: you're going to be an absolute terror when you're older."

Sherlock ran his nose across John's cheek. "And no one will have me but you."

"Yes." John sighed into a kiss, practically dizzy at the thought of being allowed the privilege to watch this beautiful youth grow into an amazing man. "Bend over the sink."

Sherlock stared at John, seeming to assess every inch of his broad chest and shoulders. What John lacked in height, he made up for in muscle, and he was happy that Sherlock seemed to approve. John, though, wasn't feeling very patient.

"Sherlock. Sink."

The younger man blinked and moved to do as ordered but stopped to reach into his coat pocket first. "You'll need these." He handed John a pouch of lube and a condom.

John stared at the goodies in his palm. "You weren't kidding about getting laid tonight."

"But I never imagined it would be with you." He smiled as he unbuckled his belt, but John moved fast enough to bat his hands away. John unbuttoned Sherlock's jeans, pushed them down his hips, and rubbed his erection through the thin material of black boxer briefs. With a quiet gasp, Sherlock's head tipped back, and John tongued at his Adam's apple.

"Now. You can bend over the sink."

Sherlock nodded, eyes a bit glazed as John leaned up on his toes and bit his bottom lip.

He leaned his upper body over the sink, but the sink was a bit low for those long legs, the effect of which made Sherlock's ass stick up in the air—and John just about pass out from the sight of it.

"So bloody tall." John chuckled while running his hands down the sides of Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock looked at him in the mirror's reflection. "No one's ever complained before."

"Not complaining, no. From what I've seen of your body, there's no room for complaint."

"There's plenty more to see."

John smiled down at him "Yeah, miles and miles of skin like silk, I'll bet. But later. Right now, I'm going to take you apart."

"Like to see you try."

John smacked his ass hard and received the reward of Sherlock's deep moan and the embarrassed reddening of his cheeks.

"Oh, someone likes a bit of punishment, ay?"

"Later, John. Where's that fucking you promised?"

"Impertinent ass." John tugged Sherlock's pants down and lowered his mouth. As soon as his lips and tongue touched Sherlock's entrance, the younger man bucked against the counter.

 _"John."_

John tongued and nibbled and toyed until Sherlock was nothing more than a trembling, begging mess, gripping desperately to the sink's edge. The taste of him, the feel of that muscular ass in his palms, was better than John could have imagined. He may have had plenty of fantasies about his friend, but fantasies paled to the actual noises Sherlock made—especially when John added fingers to the game. He wiggled and stretched. He ran a hand up Sherlock's spine and held him in place when the genius threatened to sit up and just ride John's cock.

"I believe I'm the expert here. Older and wiser." He twisted three fingers inside Sherlock and brushed his fingertips over his prostate. Sherlock gasped as John whispered, "I'll decide when to fuck you."

"Please?"

John twisted his fingers again, and Sherlock sobbed. "You never say 'please,' and yet, you've uttered the word several times in regards to sex. I think you might actually like to beg. How long should I keep you on the edge like this?" He drove his fingers in and out, and Sherlock's forehead _thunked_ down against the sink. "I think I'd like to hear you say 'please' a few more times."

"Please. Please. Please."

"Mm."

Sherlock lifted his head and stared at John in the mirror's reflection. "Please." John swore his voice was even deeper than usual. "Please, will you fuck me hard, John Watson?"

John's vision went white for a second. When he could see again, he dove for the condom. Pants around his knees, he rubbed some lube on himself and over Sherlock's hole. He pressed slowly inside—slowly … slowly.

John bit down on his lip. "God, I'm going to come." He took deep breaths through his nose.

"Absolutely not yet," Sherlock commanded. No matter that he was bent over a bathroom sink, he still sounded like posh royalty.

"Oh, fuck. Put your hands on the mirror. I don't want to break that perfect face against the wall."

Sherlock did as told, preventing himself from a probable bloody nose.

After twenty calming seconds spent thinking of chemical formulas, John started moving. Fingers curled around Sherlock's thin hips, he didn't hold back. John Watson was not in check, not in control, as he fucked his gorgeous friend into the sink—until the sink itself started to shake. No matter; John couldn't give a piss about the plumbing, not when he had Sherlock moaning beneath him.

"You feel so good:" the only coherent words shared between them, spouted by John during one of the rare moments when he closed his eyes. For most of the ride, he kept his eyes open and staring at the mirror. He could not only watch himself fuck the most perfect ass he'd ever seen but he could also watch Sherlock's face, eyes shut tight and mouth wide as he rode his own waves of pleasure—especially when John's hand reached below and wrapped around Sherlock's cock.

Toward the end, John's mental capacities returned just long enough for him to plead with Sherlock: "Come for me, love. I want to watch you."

Which was apparently just what Sherlock was waiting for, because he did come with a low growl. Sherlock's clenching muscles propelled John to his own orgasm, as well. His knees almost went out below him. He had to lean on Sherlock's back, stretched over the sink, to keep himself from tumbling to the floor.

"You're perfect." John rubbed his face on the back of Sherlock's shirt.

"Hardly."

John's head rose and fell to the harried rhythm of Sherlock's breath. "Perfect for me."

Sherlock made a small, blissful, pleased sound.

John pulled out and tossed the condom in the nearby bin. Despite the way his arms and legs felt like jelly, he managed to pull up his pants just as Sherlock did the same. John gently touched Sherlock's hip to move him to the side as he leaned over the sink and rinsed his face.

Sherlock handed him a towel. "All those nights, I crept into your room, hoping you'd take advantage."

John dried his face. "After your wanton performance this evening, I think you could have easily taken advantage of me."

"I didn't think you wanted me."

John lifted Sherlock's downturned face and then ran his fingers through those soft black curls. "I want everything about you. I always have, you idiot."

Sherlock's face wrinkled. "I'm not an idiot."

"You're a bit of an idiot for not realizing how lovely you are. No, I've decided lovely isn't the right word. How utterly fuckable you are. Like sex on stilts."

"John." He rolled his eyes.

"How good are you at studying upside-down?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to have you on your back for the next week."

His cheeks turned pink. "John, really."

"Yes. Really." John pulled him close by the hips and rubbed their noses together. "I've wanted you since I saw you. I have catching up to do. Who knows? Maybe I'll teach _you_ some things."

Sherlock, despite the blush, did his best to look put out. "Oh, please."

"There's that 'please' again …" John grinned and kissed his adorable genius—a quick kiss, then another—before someone rattled the doorknob behind them.

"Watson? We need you down here."

He told his coworker, "I'm coming."

Sherlock giggled.

"Immature git."

"Dirty old man."

John squeezed his ass as they left the bathroom.

That night, very late, Sherlock crawled through John's bedroom window and curled himself around John's body. His breath smelled of peppermint, as usual. They didn't make love, but they slept, and when John woke in the morning, he smiled to find Sherlock was still there: John's delicate, pale genius with the long fingers and silky hair.

Sherlock startled awake when John pulled him closer. "Stay forever," he said.

The younger man ran his fingers through John's chest hair. "But I have chemistry at eleven, and you're always telling me I need to—"

"No, I mean …" John kissed Sherlock's forehead and wondered what he meant.

Sherlock lifted his head and looked down at John. The early morning light darkened the light irises of his eyes. He smiled. "I know what you mean." They kissed, and John made sure the campus phenom Sherlock Holmes didn't make it to class that day.


End file.
